Artifact
by Adreus
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Tsukumo Yuma frowns, a transformation so immediate that he might not have been smiling at all, that it might've been a ghost, might've been hopeful eyes playing tricks on Ryoga's hopeless mind. —Ryoga, Yuma, Astral.


I've been wrestling with this for a while and my mental image of it is so vivid I'm almost 99% certain that it didn't translate properly to the writing. Here's hoping it makes sense anyway!

Setting is a time skip of two years, and I've made the events vague, but suffice to say it wasn't a Good End re:Rei, Yuma, and Astral.

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_Artifact_

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Ryoga gets the call at 2AM.

He's not asleep when it comes**—**it's been a long day of homework and exams and studying, and Ryoga's literally just gotten ready for bed, literally just climbed in and pulled up the covers, literally just closed his eyes and started fading into dreams—but he's not asleep when the rumbling breaks through the silence, and there's not a question of ignoring it, because he knows who it is. His hands grips the tech before his mind properly registers the sound, his fingers accept the call before his eyes even open, and lying on his pillow with his right arm over his forehead and his left holding the gazer above him, Ryoga looks up at the anxious face of Tsukumo Yuma, fifteen years old and smiling, an upward turn of his lips that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Hey," says Ryoga, and it's not a greeting. "Where are you?"

Where are you, because that's not Yuma's room, that's not the rooftop above it, that's not where Yuma should be, and it's cold and it's freezing and it's late.

Yuma frowns, a transformation so immediate that he might not have been smiling at all, that it might've been a ghost, might've been hopeful eyes playing tricks on Ryoga's hopeless mind. Yuma's not looking at him now: he's turning this way and that, like he's trying to figure out the answer to the question himself, and he mutters directions and excuses that Ryoga's not meant to understand, pretends he has no idea where he is—or maybe, Ryoga thinks, spotting the desperation in Yuma's eyes, he really _doesn't_ remember how he got here. Maybe he was too consumed with how he got now.

Ryoga's expression softens, his eyes quiver. "Forget it," he murmurs, sliding up in bed to click on his lamp. Yuma doesn't hear him, just continues to go on about this or that thing he did at this or that stoplight, or maybe he climbed up the stairs over here and turned the corner over there—

"Yuma," says Ryoga then, because he needs Yuma to steady himself, needs him to concentrate, because his sentences are making less and less sense, his words are mangling together, his breathing is getting faster and faster. Ryoga says again, louder, stronger, "Yuma!"

The boy stops suddenly, stares at Ryoga with his eyes wide and his mouth open, and the wind whistles and Yuma shivers, crosses his arms over his shoulders for want of warmth.

"You forgot your coat again," Ryoga points out as he gets up to change, to pull on a pair of pants and his jacket, and to wonder which window he can hop out of without his parents noticing, whether he should tell Rio or not, whether this even needs to be a secret anymore.

Yuma looks down, ashamed, but he doesn't say anything, and that's what drives Ryoga mad: the silence; the frowns; the sad, somber eyes, and what follows when they appear at two in the morning on school nights—

"Hey, um… do you think," Yuma begins slowly, "Do you think that if I hadn't—"

"Yuma," Ryoga breaks in urgently, as he searches through his closet for a scarf or an extra coat or _something_, where the hell is it, he knows he owns one _somewhere_—ah! "What's your favorite color?"

Yuma blinks, confused. "My... what?"

Ryoga brings the gazer to his face again, to look Yuma in the eye, and he must look ridiculous, bad hair and determined eyes, an old coat that's too small for him draped haphazardly over his shoulders when he says, "Your favorite color. Tell me what colors you like. I want to know."

Yuma considers it for a moment, as though he's never been asked this before, as though it isn't something Ryoga does every time this happens, and Ryoga returns to slipping on his shoes and grabbing his keys, but his motorcycle will be too loud so there's no need for the helmet, all he needs are his feet and the gazer's geolocation, all he needs is to find Yuma and keep him company or take him home or be whatever else Yuma needs him to be.

"Orange," says Yuma finally, when Ryoga's jumping out the window, and it's been so long Ryoga'd forgotten the question. "Pink. White." Some hesitation. "Blue."

"Blue?" prompts Ryoga, because that's a new one, because he needs Yuma to keep talking to him, to stay focused on the here and the now, no matter how stupid it is, just for a little while, so that Ryoga can run, run to him, run under the dim light of moon and try not to imagine a second or third one next to it.

Yuma nods, slowly. "Blue. A... light blue, maybe like the sky, like—"

Astral.

_You'll watch over him when I'm gone, won't you?_

"What about purple? Do you like purple?" asks Ryoga suddenly, and he doesn't recognize his own voices in its breathiness, barely even hears it with his heartbeat so loud in his ears, _where are you, where are you—_

Yuma thinks it over. "Hmm... It's... okay. Purple's okay."

—There! There he is, by the river and on the hill, his back to the road and to Ryoga, and Ryoga runs to him, nearly trips, has to stop and balance himself; runs forward again and falls to his knees with a thud in the grass. Yuma jumps, surprised at his arrival; so focused on one thing in a moment, he hadn't even realized Ryoga was on the move.

"Shark!"

Ryoga's lungs don't have the capacity to form words, but he wants to laugh at the nickname.

"Hey," he says when he finally can, and this time it's in greeting, and he coughs and he drapes the jacket over Yuma, clumsily. Yuma looks down again, distracted, numb, until Ryoga pulls him into his chest. Warm. Firm. Alive. Here. The rhythm of his heartbeat and the flow of water the only sounds for the both of them to hear, until the quiet, sober: "H-Hey... Shark, do you think—if I'd done it differently, do you think—"

Ryoga holds him tighter.

_What kind of stupid question is that?_


End file.
